


All Art's Ensigns

by a_thousand_sails



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Adding tags as I go along, F/M, Idiots in Love, South China Sea, Undercover, slow-burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:30:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4875130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_thousand_sails/pseuds/a_thousand_sails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The burgeoning alliance of the UNCLE team has been splintered by the Istanbul disaster. That is, until mysterious goings on in a remote Asian island have the KGB, CIA, and MI6 terrified enough to bring the unlikely team-mates back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> "Rent or furled are all Art's ensigns" - read Wilfred Owen if you want to correct my quoting.
> 
> Of course I don't own any MFU characters - gosh, it's fanfiction peeps.

The bitter sky churned malodourously. Each chomp of its electric teeth crashed about the world with jarring force. He knew this was not right. It was not natural. They had said the monsoons were a flood from the heavens, but they had said nothing about this tempestuous violence. The buzzing air and tossing trees and the wild energy his fear lent his legs.  
It was hard not to crash into the trees. His wet hair flopped into his eyes, while his feet were sucked down by the mud. Through the stewing noise a certain, small sound reached his ears.   
It had the effect of a lightning bolt. The man screamed as he stiffened in shock, eyes rolling this way and that in an attempt to maintain as large a vision as possible. Then he flung himself away to his left, pounding over the sprawling, groping roots and splashing through the fronds and vines and drooping fat leaves. Was it his careening imagination, or was he close to the mangroves? Mangroves meant water. Was that good? Was that bad?

The next biting clash of lightning cauterized all thoughts from his agonised mind. With an inhuman howl, the man threw himself to the ground, wrapping his arms around his head. They were coming for him. He would never escape in this stewpot of madness and noise. But then, in another second, he was up and running again. The need to survive, which had driven him forwards for so many years, was now stabbing at his muscles. Even as his thoughts devolved into a jabbering confusion of fear and exhaustion, his legs kept thudding him further.


	2. Act 1, Scene 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Agent Gaby Teller

“Scheiße-“ Gabi bit down on her lip as she slid into the water. 

Her manicured nails clenched the white rim convulsively, making a clattering sound. With a soft sigh of relief, Gabi relaxed. The sunlight coming through the large windows reflected blindingly off the white walls, tiles, and bathtub, and so she closed her eyes. The water swirled with oil and rose-petals, making clusters and patterns and occasionally brushing against her tender skin. She had the odd urge to hold her breath and slide under the water, but of course that would be silly with her large bun of chocolate hair pinned to her head. She settled for leaning back against the tub, stretching out her legs. She’d never been in a bath as big as that of the hotel in Athens. Waverley, perhaps feeling guilty, seemed to have gone to great effort and expense to secure her a comfortable stay.

And comfortable it was. Winter in Greece was mild and not so very rainy. On this particular mid-morning, the world was bright and beautiful. The soft, clean towels, mats, and bath-gown invited her to stroke them; to touch and feel and be comforted. She could rest, and she could think. Gabi knew that outside some of the trees would be a burnished gold. She knew that the city of white stone and greenery would be just as quaint and welcoming. But it was all so fake. Here among the gilded door-handles and bowls of fruit, she was sore and alone. 

Gabi reached for the bar of lavender soap, inhaling its scent before using it. As the white stains ran down her skin, they turned red, and Gabi closed her eyes. When she peeked out, the soapy residue was white again. She could, however, feel the cold scrape of the knife. The plunge of her heart and the rush of adrenaline and nausea.  
Gasping, Gabi pushed herself to sitting. How long had it been? About two months, at least. She hugged her knees to her chest. Two months since Istanbul, and she still hadn’t recovered. It hurt. She hurt. Everywhere. And she hated it. Gabi needed something to focus on, to do, something to distract her. Not the incessant waiting, sleeping, dreaming. She was afraid of the night-time now. With a bitter laugh, she shook her head, a single tear released from her eye. How pathetic she was. How weak and unsure and scared.  
Before the tears could come in earnest, however, a knock sounded at the bathroom door. As she called out that she would be out in a moment, a head peered round. It was Waverley’s secretary. Gabi would never forget the woman’s scraped back hair and too-tight clothing. With her usual expression, or rather, lack of one, the secretary scuttled in. She clutched a large white file to her ample bosom.

“Miss Teller. Mr. Waverley has requested you read this file.”  
The woman only now seemed to notice that she was in a bathroom. She looked around for a place to deposit them, until Gabi sighed and stretched out her dry arm. Waverley’s secretary, whose name Gabi had never heard, gave a short nod and retreated back out of the room.

Gabi shook her head, bemused. Then she saw the title of the file. U.N.C.L.E. Mission Debriefing: South China Sea. Her breath stuttered, and returned in force. She flicked her other hand partially dry, and flipped through the pages, not caring about the damp fingerprints she left. Another tear slipped out of her eyes. It was almost an answer from above – her chance to rise above Istanbul. To show her team-mates, and more importantly herself, that she was stronger than ever. She devoured the rest of the file.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... all of these are really short... Sorry... And I do not speak German, which should be obvious.  
> Anyways what do you think? If anyone's reading this??!!! (First work nerves)  
> Please comment - I don't bite!


	3. Act 1, Scene 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Illya Kuryakin

Russian winters. No light, feathery snow or sledding or bright, warm lights. The concrete pavement was draped in slush. The erratic wind was dancing a cruel Bacchanalian revel, vomiting sleet in all directions. People bolted their doors and huddled together, thinking back, perhaps, to a time when they might have sung to drown out the wind. But not anymore. The wind shook its invisible fist up from under doorways and down through chimneys, shrieking supreme in all its primeval fury.

Illya stifled a shiver. The cold was creeping up from the metal chair, numbing his legs and backside. He sat rigidly straight, staring at a precise chip in the plaster on the wall ahead of him.

“I thought you knew where your allegiance lay, Kuryakin.” The short man was seated a couple of meters in front. 

Illya knew how stupid it would be to reply.

“I thought you knew your duty in the Turkish mission. Trusted that you would not fail.” 

All of a sudden, the soft, dangerous voice rose to echo furiously in the all but empty room: “And what did you do? You betrayed us, betrayed your country… just like your father before you.”

There was a long silence in which Illya was left to squirm. Only he held onto his control and composure, as he had done over the past few weeks. He reminded himself of the reason he had made his choice. The thought alone fed steel into his blood. It was an anchor amidst the storm of familiarity and absurdity, stiff routines and torture.  
He allowed himself to think of a single image, a single item. It was a ring. A silver ring with a large dark pearl set onto it. And in that single image, was a variety of other senses: the smell of lavender and the touch of a tiny finger. But then the world came back to its usual focused clarity, and the vision was gone. Instead the short, fat man who sat in front of him was glowering and shouting again. 

It made no sense. None of it did. Not the false paternal smiles and the pats on the back and the mocking praise. Not the biting criticism and harsh or random punishment. Not the sly, cold taunts carefully calculated and weighted and aimed. Not even the strange desperation with which it was all carried out.   
It was so tiring trying to make sense of anything that he had long ago given up. Much better to stare at the wall and wait for it to end. How long now? How long had they been questioning him, testing him, giving him the usual bizarre, unexplained tasks they did to trainees. Hadn’t he outgrown this? Had he not proved himself already? Perhaps they thought his missions with U.N.C.L.E. had compromised this.

A slap stung his face. “Are you listening?” 

His old handler was standing in front of him now. Grudgingly, Illya raised his face to look up at the man, who was smiling grimly.

“You may leave now, Kuryakin. Don’t worry. You are our best agent, and I am proud of you.” The man’s heavy lid dropped in a conspiratorial wink. “I know you are loyal, Illyusha. They might not, but I do.”

With that, Illya saluted his superior, and turned to leave the hall-like room. He remained silent, expressionless, and outwardly calm. As usual. It was only when he stepped out of the squat grey building that he let a scowl descend. He hunched his shoulders over against the cold, and was about to step off into the street, when a small child darted past. Illya slid deftly around him, noticing the brush of paper inside his hand. It was a delivery.

DIAL THE NUMBER ON THE REVERSE

Sighing, Illya turned his steps towards the nearest payphone. He slid a coin into it, and dialled the number, picking the handle up from its steel hook. The wind buffeted him from behind, slipping icy fingers under his clothes to pinch his skin. 

“Kuryakin?” The dry British voice nearly sent the Russian agent reeling.

“Yes?”

“Forgetting me already? I have a new mission for you.”

“They let you-“ Illya cut off his voice, which was thick and unwieldy, before he said anything further.

“Well, yes. You see, a fellow KGB agent has gone missing. I think that put a little bonfire up their trousers…”

Illya was silent as Waverley’s voice continued to lay out the plan: an airplane flight to Thailand, and then a boat to a remote island somewhere close to China. He and his two old teammates would be going in undercover to investigate. For some reason, Illya felt a warm bubble appear in his stomach, and expand to include his entire body. He placed receiver back on the arm of the payphone, and turned to walk blindly into the sleet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG don't we love this dude? And don't we love Soviet-era payphones? The pictures are all so cool and I can't describe anything properly... I can honestly say I had no idea what I was doing when I wrote this... It didn't work out quite the way I wanted it to... but ah well. I was too excited not to post EVERY SCRAP I HAD!
> 
> Aherm, thank you


	4. Act 1, Scene 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Napoleon Solo

A surly Napoleon Solo swirled his whiskey around in the glass. Occasionally, his eyes would dart up to look around the crowded room. This bar in central Johannesburg was not always a peaceful place to have a drink, as he had found out. The man in the far corner was indeed getting louder and louder, his brutish Afrikaans words difficult for the American spy to translate. It was similar to German, but not similar enough. If Napoleon had ever learned Dutch it would have helped. However, he had never seen the need to. And he had never foreseen that he would have been sent traipsing through the violent and backwards South Africa on a mission.

It really wasn’t his style, he mused. Yes, he had had to sleep with a fairly pretty girl, but then he had been chased off the front porch and into the street by her rifle-carrying husband. He had infiltrated underground human rights movements, but then had nearly been executed by a township mob by having a burning tyre placed around his neck. That had been fun. 

Napoleon swigged back the last of his drink. He had no idea why he of all people had been sent merely to assess socio-political feeling and gather information. Surely they had some low-level operatives for that? It was simply American attempts at blocking the expansion of communism into Africa. This popped up the unwelcome image of a certain blond communist. Napoleon snorted at himself. The U.N.C.L.E. missions had been experimental, nothing more. They were interesting, yes, but now they were over.

Or so he thought. Meanwhile, the bar tender approached him. Napoleon judged the man harmless, and took the proffered piece of paper.

“Telegram for you.”

Solo raised an eyebrow, nodded at the man, and retreated upstairs to his tiny room. This was why he stayed in Johannesburg rather than Pretoria. At least most people were English.

MR SOLO. STOP. HOW INTERESTED ARE YOU IN SPYING FOR US AGAIN? STOP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saluting all fellow South Africans. No idea if cold war spies were ever interested in the Apartheid. Haven't done any research, never seen a telegram in my life, and... Yeah, no ragrets! ;)


	5. Act 2, Scene 1

A train rattled its way over the Eurasian borderlands. In the third car, not too close to the engine or too far, near the window but not beside it, hunched a very tall man. _Not to say you’re unvigilant, Kuryakin, but if I were you I’d keep my eyes peeled._ Beneath the grey cap his shaded eyes were closed, but his ears monitored every footstep that slapped past the door, every shudder of the rain as it rounded a bend in the tracks.

Far above the Indian Ocean, a flimsy biplane drew crayon-marks on the sky. Firmly pressed against the rotting upholstery, the only passenger shut his eyes and ears against the endless narration of the Kenyan pilot. It seemed the man had flown the length and breadth of time and thought, and was all too eager to share his insights and exploits with his captive audience. _I’m sorry I can’t meet with you all personally, Solo, you know I love your brand of affected humour, but we’re in a bit of a pickle. One of the KGB’s agents has disappeared on a particularly nasty Chinese island._

A whistle rang out over the decks, announcing the sight of land to whoever seemed blind enough to still be staring at the ocean after three days in a storm. Clutching at the railings, studiously aloof from the rest of the rejoicing passengers, a petite young woman borrowing someone’s binoculars was sweeping the vegetated coast. Pity that someone would have to find a new pair, as they were still on her when she descended the wooden walkway to the dock. _Do not trust anyone or anything, Gaby. We suspect an international organisation is involved, quite possibly tied to the Vinciguerra affair. This is far more dangerous than Rome, however. The KGB isn’t the only organisation to have mysterious losses. So far we know nothing, and that’s a hateful enough thing to say to have to say it twice. I will not be repeating myself to a backup team, is that clear?_

The man who limped out of the Eastern terminus of the Kowloon-Canton Railway was still wearing his plain black clothes and grey cap, although they looked decidedly wrinkled and worse for the wear. He wore stiff exhaustion clasped to his chest, huddling over himself, and the darting glances from under his cap seared the world fitfully.

The spicy noise of the streets enveloped him as he surfaced, hiding his height and discomfort. He turned down a busy road, carving a path through automobiles and rick-shaws and pedestrians, who all seemed to switch paths interchangeably. The multi-coloured apartment blocks and red-and-white neon signs threatened to block out the darkening sky. A light, hot rain began to fall. It broiled the dust and dirt into a humid stew, coating the skin and clothes of the man who paced on, and growing danker in waves as he turned down alleys or closes.  

By the time he reached the waterfront, the man was drenched. Thick blonde hair escaped his cap to drip into his eyebrows. He ducked surreptitiously through a gap between buildings, emerging onto a short wooden walkway before a couple of massive boats. Long and narrow, rising a few stories out of the water with a gaudy facade of some sort of Forbidden City design. They were the floating restaurants.

By virtue of imposition, the man made his way with relative speed through the crowds of people on the boat. Waiters and customers alike made way for him. At the far side of the bustling restaurant sat a striking couple: a broad, chiselled-looking man wearing an expression of grim distaste along with a charcoal-grey suit, the jacket currently discarded, and a petite woman sitting ramrod-straight and fiddling absently with the short hem of her red-and-white cheongsam. The woman looked prettily cross, and bored, which was quite in keeping with her character, and had styled her hair in a western chiffon, perhaps in rebellion against her traditional Cantonese dress.

They both looked up as the tall man slid onto his chair.

“Well, look who came in from the cold!” Napoleon Solo flashed a tired grin.

Illya nodded at them both, though Gaby made no greeting. He quickly tore his eyes away from her and the soft chocolate tendrils which framed her face.

“Mr. O’Shea, you have booked the boat?” Stupid thing to say. Waverley had done so.

“Of course,” Solo shook his head ruefully. “Straight to business. Speaking of which, how’s our shady securities trade coming along?”

As usual, Solo’s conversational snakes-and-ladders had Illya blinking before he could reply.

“Shadily.”

Gaby barked out a laugh before she could stop herself, and Illya wasn’t sure whether she was laughing at his gruff joke or the awkward ridiculousness of this reunion. Even harsh and biting, he was drawn to the sound of her voice. Breathy and lilting, blasé.

Napoleon ignored her. “I do hope that’s a genuine Norwegian accent you’ve got there, friend. I can’t tell.”

“Is genuine,” Illya muttered. For goodness’ sake, it wasn’t that different from Russian. Softer, less guttural, more rounded. He thought he was doing a good job.

Why couldn’t they get this over with? They were professionals, and didn’t need practice in running over their covers: Illya and Solo were Kristian Thorsen and Charles O’Shea, respectively. Or the brutal businessman and wily playboy, partners in a mysterious enterprise. However you wanted to look at it. Hopefully, Solo would do all the talking. As he was doing now. Gaby was a bright young archaeologist, joining the British team excavating the island (Waverley must have bribed some members of the Royal Geographical Society). While Thorsen and O’Shea would attach themselves to the island’s wealthy owners, Anne Hartley would get to explore.

Why did Gaby not talk? Was she so truly bored and uninterested? Was she – had – was it too painful to speak? Illya’s eyes went automatically to where the high collar of her dress hid the skin of her neck. He flinched involuntarily as her eyes met his.

“Kristian? Are you listening to me?”

“No.” Illya had been fighting a losing battle trying not to stare at Gaby, who was still silent.

“Well Anne and I have ordered. I chose the ginger-garlic steamed oysters and Anne the pork congee. What would-“

“Am not hungry. We should be quick.”

“Well, I see you took Waverley’s cryptic paranoia to heart. Tables have ears, and all that.” He rambled on, and Illya grew steadily more and more uncomfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No editing! No extensive research! Hardly a plot! Formatting has gone to hell.
> 
> Gosh this has been crazy and fun and I ask no forgiveness, you read at your own peril. Your own gorgeous Red Peril... 
> 
> I have no idea what size chapters to write - for non-fanfic writing I like to write at least 3000 words, but that just doesn't seem right here. Oh well.


End file.
